Up the creek without a paddle
by bloodmagik
Summary: When the shit hits the fan during a hunt, the boys head to the Roadhouse to patch up their wounds. Hurt!Sam, Hurt!Sick!Dean and mother-hen!Ellen. Rated M for language
1. Chapter 1

This is set around the start of season two and will feature Ellen because I love the dynamic she has going on with the boys. Enjoy :)

Disclaimer: I do not own anything to do with Supernatural other than seasons 1-7 on DVD.

* * *

The hunt goes south the minute they step out of the Impala.

It starts to rain, fine driving lines that come at them horizontally and leave them dripping and miserable as they head into the dense cluster of imposing trees. The wind is picking up, causing fallen leaves to dance around their ankles as they make a bid for freedom and Sam has to strain to hear as a gust steals at Dean's voice, carrying the instructions away in a flurry of biting cold. He hunkers further into his jacket, gaze constantly moving yet keeping a watchful eye on the back of his brother's head as they march onwards towards their target. His head is swimming, heart slamming against his ribs as he realises that they're essentially going into this blind. They can barely hear each other above the roar of the wind, let alone the snapping of a twig that could be the difference between life and death.

There is no path. They walk on, stumbling occasionally as they clamber over exposed roots and stones as they head deeper into the mass of trees. Sam's hair is plastered to his head, fat drops collecting at the ends of the sodden strands before they make their escape _en mass _and he swipes at the bangs obscuring his view. All he can see of his brother is the icy fog of his breath, staccato bursts of white against the blackness of the forest as he surges ahead. A few paces ahead of his brother, Dean pauses, hitching his duffle higher onto his shoulder as the first bolt of brilliant white-hot lightening slices at the sky. It surges through the clearing, throwing the brothers into short-lived relief and the shadows shift fleetingly, a flash of grey catching Dean's eye as something moves behind the cover of the trees.

"Sam, down!"

It charges Sam, a blur of sallow, emaciated flesh that hits him with the force of a freight train as it lashes out. Long, ragged talons slash through the layers of waterlogged clothing covering Sam's chest before Dean can free the knife from the sopping denim that clings to his leg, vital seconds wasting away as Sam struggles against the claws hacking at his raw flesh. He runs distraction, fires at the thing, bullet grazing the harsh angle of its shoulder blade and it howls, a caustic, piercing scream that carries over the roar of the wind and rain as it turns towards him and causes his breath to catch in his throat. He spins on his heel as it launches itself at him, red eyes flashing menacingly as it advances and he can just about make out Sam's anguished shout as he disappears into the surrounding mass of trees.

"Dean!"

He's running, breath coming in ragged gasps as it bears down on him. The trees are bigger, older, in this part of the forest, their sprawling roots rising up through puddles of muddy rainwater and he glances back over his shoulder as he skips over them, adrenaline making his heart pound desperately against his ribcage.

It barrels into him, driving him forwards as he falls. He hits the ground hard, curling up as it swipes at his head and he can feel its claws piercing the skin at the back of his neck. He kicks out, his boot connecting with something solid and he lashes out, desperately tries to buy himself some time as he scrambles to his feet. It lunges at him and he feels pain radiating up his neck as it connects. The impact sends him crashing backwards into a weathered oak, his head connecting painfully with the gnarled trunk as the creature rears up in front of him, fangs bared in victory as it prepares to strike for the last time.

His knife is out of reach, the blade glinting mockingly as lightning flashes overhead.

This is it. The End.

Its arm starts to move, comes down towards his exposed neck and its almost as if time has stopped; He's watching in slow motion as he waits, eyes closed in defeat, for the feel of its talons ripping into the sensitive skin over his jugular.

"Hey!"

His eyes fly open when he hears Sam's cry, chest heaving as relief floods through his veins, and it whips round, fixing his brother with its bloodthirsty stare. He reaches for the knife, arm shaking as he feels for it and his fingers curl around the cold metal of the handle. He lunges, driving the silver blade deep into the creature's chest and it shrieks, an abrasive cutting noise that makes him feel like someone is drilling into his skull as it drops, pinning him to the tree.

He can't seem to drag his eyes away.

"You okay?"

He looks up to see Sam standing in front of him, worry clouding his features and his eyes automatically zoom in on the rivers of blood streaming from the gashes on his little brother's cheek and the way Sam is cradling his right arm. He huffs, closing his eyes and lets his head fall back as he tries to steady his breathing enough to answer.

"Yeah."

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Please review if you have any comments :)


	2. Chapter 2

Frantic pounding snaps Ellen from her daydream. It's late, well past closing time, and the Roadhouse is blessedly empty, the jukebox the only sound as she wipes down glasses behind the bar. The noise startles her and her eyes drop to the shotgun that's propped up next to the till, it's presence reassuring.

"Who's there?"

She drops the damp rag on the countertop and skirts around the end, eyes moving constantly and ears pricked as she makes her way to the door. Gun cocked, she reaches for the lock and another bolt of lightening flashes across the unrelenting sky as she inches the door open. They look like they've been swimming, their clothes clinging to the hard lines of their bodies and she feels her stomach drop as her gaze sweeps over the scarlet stains the rain hasn't managed to wash away.

Dean's face is pale, a stark contrast to the mass of red covering his neck and he stumbles, steadying himself against a table with a shaking hand. He sinks wearily into a slatted wooden chair; his hair drips sluggishly onto the table as his head comes to rest on his folded arms and Ellen can see minute shivers coursing through his sodden frame as the adrenaline wears off and gives way to pain and exhaustion.

Sam's jaw is clenched, his injured arm tucked tightly against his aching chest. His jacket is slashed, his olive skin a study in scarlet where it shows through the saturated cotton and her eyes wander higher, skimming over the solid contours of his face until they reach the jagged gashes that sit below the camber of his cheekbone.

"Well? One of you going to tell me what the hell happened to you two?"

Her tone is biting, harsher than she intended and Sam flinches, huffing as the movement jars his ribs and sends pain radiating through his shoulder and up his neck. He's silent, a stoic colossus of a man but his eyes are big and childlike, distrustful, when he finally meets her gaze.

"Wendigo."

She nods sharply, closing her eyes and bringing a hand up to run through the soft strands of her messy ponytail as the smoke behind her closed lids twists and swirls into a image that sends shivers running up her spine and she feels her whole body soften.

"Alright. Go dry off and then I'll look at those cuts. There are clean towels in the guest room."

She smiles at him, something warm spreading through her chest when he smiles back, flashing dimples as he passes her with both of their duffles slung over his good shoulder. She takes a step forwards, pausing as the sopping mess lying on the table in front of her coughs quietly, apparently unaware that he's alone in the room with her and she crouches down beside him, knees protesting at the movement. He's warm under her palm and he lifts his head from his arms at her touch, eyes glazed and unfocussed as he squints at her in the harsh lighting of the bar. She reaches out, can feel his eyes, so much older than his years, boring into her face as she pulls at the collar of his jacket and his shirt, exposing the raw flesh underneath.

"It got you pretty good."

She finds herself tutting, dropping her hands to her knees as she pushes herself upright and he shrugs, swallows hard as he leans back in the chair, his eyes slipping shut.

"It went for Sammy."

She huffs, manages to stop herself scolding him for his nonchalance as he turns his head towards her, wincing when the movement pulls at torn flesh and she sighs.

"C'mon, Rambo, time for bed."

His mouth twitches, the corners creeping up into a poor imitation of his usual cocky grin and he groans, bracing against the furniture as he pushes himself up. He blinks rapidly, lashes fluttering and he reaches out, fumbling for support as the room contorts and he feels Ellen's cool hand on his wrist, pulling his arm over her shoulders, the other palm pressing firmly into the soaking material clinging to his lower back as she steers him towards the guest room through the back.


	3. Chapter 3

This chapter is now complete :D

Enjoy :)

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The door of the guest room swings open as Sam digs through his bag for a dry shirt, the groaning of the hinges catching his attention, and he looks up as his brother is guided over the threshold. The towel he's clutching in his free hand drops, landing in a damp heap at his feet as he stands, ignoring his protesting ribs to duck under Dean's other arm and take his weight. He can feel Dean shivering as they shuffle forwards, the wet leather of his jacket cool against Sam's now warm skin and he hesitates when they reach the bed, unwilling to set his soaking, bleeding brother down on top of Ellen's crisp cotton sheets.

"Can you stand for a minute? I don't think Ellen will be very happy if we get blood all over her sheets."

He cautiously lets go of Dean's wrist, watches closely as his legs tremble ominously under the strain and he worries at his lower lip, body poised and ready should Dean go down, which he does after only a few seconds. He lunges, arms stretched forwards as he scrambles at the wet leather of Dean's jacket, his grip sliding as he grabs at his falling brother and thankfully manages to slow his descent.

"You boys alright?"

Ellen's back, brow furrowed into a number of deep creases as she kneels at Sam's side. The bulky first aid box is pushed aside, forgotten, as her sharp eyes sweep over Dean's face, his freckles standing out in stark relief against the pallor of his skin and she turns to look questioningly at Sam, his green eyes mirroring the concern she can feel building, its arms wrapping around her and stealing at her breath.

"He passed out."

She sighs, letting her gaze drop to the carpeted floor and she brings a hand up to swipe at a stray strand of hair that has escaped from her ponytail as she tries to focus, takes a moment to consider her options. The gashes on Sam's face are still oozing, beads of crimson pooling above the craters until gravity takes hold and pulls at it, drags it down, leaving a glistening rust-coloured trail in its wake. She works down, critical eyes canvassing the bare skin of his chest and his right shoulder, which is a mass of red and white, long uneven strips of colour glistening wetly in contrast to the surrounding pale flesh. The tissues over his ribs are darkening, a blue-green shadow moulding around the hard lines of his obliques before it disappears beneath the waistband of his grey cotton sweats.

"I think you'll live. Now help me get your brother out of these wet clothes."

He grins, dimples flashing and emerald eyes glinting mischievously and she splutters awkwardly, blazing colour heating her cheeks as she scowls at him and swats half-heartedly at his head, saves herself from further humiliation by sending him to grab more towels from the closet down the hall. Dean's eyes are wary, his gaze tracking the trajectory of her hand as she reaches for his elbow and gently eases him upright. He shudders violently, flesh speckling with goose bumps as she peels away layers of leather and flannel until he's down to his undershirt, the white cotton now transparent and stained red around the collar.

"Arms up."

The cuts are deep; silky crimson tendrils seeping from the raw flesh between the base of his hairline and the middle of his collarbone and Ellen grimaces as fresh liquid oozes from the slits. Her hands move down to his belt, nimble fingers feeding the leather tongue back through the silver keeper and she jumps when she feels his clammy hand wrap around her wrist, his green eyes silently pleading with her as he tries to hide behind a snarky, smart-ass remark.

"Love it when you take charge, Ellen."

His mouth quirks, faltering, mask slipping and he breaks off to hack into the crook of his elbow as Sam returns with a towering armful of fluffy towels. He drops them unceremoniously on the bed, forehead wrinkling as he hears the wet rasping that leaves Dean slightly breathless and scowling, flapping at the hand Ellen is pushing in the direction of his forehead. Sam snickers at the disbelief that washes over Ellen's face as she's blocked, his still-damp head dropping quickly to study a speck nestled amongst the dark fibers of the carpet when she whips round, glaring icily in his direction.

"A little help here, Sam?"

Chastised, he sinks to his knees, ignores the flash of betrayal in Dean's eyes when he pins his brother's arm down so Ellen can palm at his forehead unhindered and she clucks disapprovingly when she feels heat burning at the sensitive skin on the underside of her hand. Dean sags beneath Ellen's comforting touch, eyes sliding shut in defeat as he lets his head fall back and his face creases into a frown.

"Traitor."

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Thanks for reading :)


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter three has been updated so please re-read it before moving on if you haven't already.

I've changed the ending slightly. I think it works better now.

Cue mothering, exasperated Ellen. Enjoy :)

* * *

Dean's sure Ellen has all-seeing eyes. Or something along those lines because every time he tries to leave the guest room, she catches him, proceeds to fuss and cluck as she herds him back into bed and feels his forehead, overlooking his protests.

He's alone in the room once more, propped on a mountain of pillows to ease the congestion that is slowly reducing his airways until he feels like he's trying to breathe through a tube the width of a straw and as much as it pains him to admit it, maybe Ellen's right; he's sick. That still doesn't give her the right to paw at him whenever she feels like it. Or scold him; he's 26 years old for God's sake, a grown man who's more than capable of dealing with a little _cold_. Ellen and Sam are seriously overreacting by making him stay in bed but then Sammy always was a Drama Queen.

* * *

He's finally resting, dozing when Ellen pops her head around the door, pushes it open, the piercing squeal of the hinges ear-splitting against the silence of the darkened room. He stirs, turns his head towards the noise, and her eyes are drawn to the swathes of white gauze that mould to the contours of his neck as she lowers herself to sit at his hip.

"No."

She pauses, teetering on the fine line between amusement and annoyance as he scowls weakly at her, his displeasure apparent when she leans forward, reaching out to cup his cheek and sweep the bangs from his sweaty forehead. He groans when she produces the thermometer, breaking off to cough wetly into a soggy tissue when the sound catches in his throat, his pale face flushing in embarrassment when he feels the coolness of Ellen's hand rubbing soothing circles through the thin cotton of his t-shirt.

She plays dirty, waits until he's slumped back against his pillows, exhausted, to thrust the thermometer in his mouth, the corners of her lips quirking as he mutters indignantly about bossy mother hens and traitorous little brothers around the plastic instrument.

"M'fine."

He's not as skilled as his brother in the puppy-eyes department and he huffs, lets his head drop back against the headboard when Ellen laughs and reaches for the thermometer, her face creasing into a frown as she stares at the numbers on the tiny screen.

"You're not fine. Go back to sleep, Dean."

She stands, presses her hands to her knees to push herself upright and she turns towards the door, glares over her shoulder when she hears the rustling of the duvet that signals Dean's next bid for freedom.

"Don't you even _think_ about getting out of that bed, boy."

The rustling stops.

* * *

"Where's Sam?"

Glazed green eyes find hers as she presses a cloth to his burning forehead, the Tylenol she forced on him earlier having not had the desired affect. She smiles sadly, allows her thumb to trail gently over one of the splashes of colour staining his cheekbones before she answers him.

"He's in the bar, honey, remember?"

He doesn't; He's asked her the same thing three times since she came in to check on him and found him flushed and restless.

She starts when he tries to sit up, his shaking hands fumbling for the duvet as she lays a calming hand on his chest, pushes him back gently.

"Relax, Dean, Sam's just fine."

He looks so lost she can't help herself; She sits at his side, wraps her arms around him and pulls him close, and he lets his head rest on her shoulder, melts into her hold.

"Sleep. I promise I won't let anything happen to your brother."


	5. Chapter 5

Sorry, it's been absolutely ages since I updated this. I've struggled to find inspiration but it's finally back so here goes. It's turning out to be about Ellen and her thoughts on Dean and how the boys bring out the mother hen in her. Fancy that. There will be Sam/Dean fluffiness as well eventually.

* * *

Ellen doesn't consider herself a soft touch. She's been a hunter for longer than the Winchester boys have been alive, knows first hand that emotions and hunting mix as well as oil and water. There was never any time to be emotional with a young daughter and the Roadhouse to run yet there's something about these boys that threatens to turn her into a fluffy bunny. Damn Winchesters and their ability to tug on her heartstrings.

It doesn't seem to matter what Ellen, or Sam for that matter, does – Dean's fever keeps on rising, almost as if to spite them and all of their efforts. She's not surprised; Dean's always been a stubborn bastard. So far he hasn't disappointed, trying to get out of bed and refusing to let her take his temperature without a fight while she threatens him halfheartedly with Sam and, when that fails, Bobby and a trip to the Emergency Room.

He damn near breaks her heart when he looks at her with those eyes and asks for his brother; His eyes are the one feature he shares with Sam and it's the first thing that pops into her head when she thinks of the Winchesters, not the cocky grins or the brotherly teasing that, more often than not, leaves her caught between laughter and sheer exasperation. Sam can tease her all he wants about being an overbearing mother hen; The boy she's gathered in her arms is a shadow of the man she turned her gun on all those months ago. As much as Dean needs the comfort, the gesture is, to an extent, selfish on her part in that she craves the physical contact that has all but disappeared between herself and her only child. It reminds her of nights spent in the excruciating silence of the empty bar waiting for her husband to return, Jo a comforting warmth snug against her side, her small chest rising and falling evenly as she sleeps in Ellen's arms.

She shakes herself when Dean sighs contently and nestles closer. Her husband is dead, her little girl all grown up and hunting on her own.

The ache in her chest is suddenly overwhelming.

* * *

It turns out that being stubborn is a Winchester family trait. Sam may look as innocent as a basket of kittens with those big eyes and dimples of his, but in reality he's just as mulish as his pain-in-the-ass big brother.

"Boy, tell me you're fine one more time and I swear to God, I'll tan your ass."

Ellen can actually _feel_ her hair turning grey.

"Let me see your shoulder." She pauses for effect, "Now, Sam."

The kid has the nerve to tut and roll his eyes at her when she fixes him with a look that would have had his brother running for the hills were he the subject of her displeasure. It's kind of funny, really, because she's always thought of Sam as being the more fragile of the two of them; it probably has something to do with the way Dean seems to take delight in constantly ribbing his baby brother with taunts of "Samantha" and "you're such a girl, Sammy".

Sam's movements are agonizingly slow as he carefully eases out of his undershirt and it's all she can do to stop herself cursing his stubbornness out loud as she reaches out to guide the material over his injured shoulder. His skin is warm under her fingers as she picks at the edge of the tape, pulling gently until the swathes of gauze reveal the wounds she spent the better part of the early hours of yesterday morning stitching while Sam choked down enough Jack Daniels to tranquilize an elephant and obstinately refused to pass out.

The last thing she expects to see is the suspicious redness that's starting to radiate away from the wounds, delicate threads of colour strangely dark against the paleness of the surrounding fragile flesh.

"Shit."

* * *

I think that was right place to end this chapter - it's going to much longer than the others so I will leave it there to keep it in line.

More Sammy!whump to come in the next chapter and I may have promised some Sam/Dean fluff as well.


	6. Chapter 6

I'm going to be a bit of a tease. Sorry, but, once again, it's not quite finished. Consider my wrists slapped.

AN: You need to bear in mind this is set before Dean goes back in time and finds out about the Campbells and Mary's deal with yellow eyes.

* * *

Sam looks up, brow furrowing into what his brother refers to as his 'bitch-face' as he twists round as far as his sore side will let him. Which turns out to not be very far; He can't see where the gashes taper off over his triceps without his muscles screaming in protest. Whoever decided that wrapping ribs is a bad thing has obviously never had to suffer through weeks of feeling like they're being stabbed with every breath. He'd have taken his chances with pneumonia had Ellen not put her foot down and forbidden it. And hidden the first aid kit.

He jumps when Ellen's hand presses against his face, its coolness anchoring him as fiery tendrils of pain radiate up his neck and steal the air from his lungs. There's a little crease in the space between her eyebrows when he opens his eyes, her mouth set in a thin line as she eyes him critically and he manages a sheepish smile when she raises an eyebrow, cheeks flushing as he ducks his head, suddenly embarrassed at the way Ellen has gotten him cornered, half naked, against the bar.

Awkward doesn't even _begin_ to describe it. At least Dean isn't here; he'd never hear the end of it if he were; '_Such a prude, Sammy. Didn't know you had a thing for Cougars.' _

Ellen is brushing the hair away from his face and there's something about the motion that makes him pause. Maybe it's because the gesture is so foreign to him. Sure, he remembers Dean doing something similar when they were younger as he jokingly threatened him with a haircut but this, this is something his brother will never be able to replicate no matter how much he may try. Need to.

He doesn't remember anything about their mom; the only knowledge he has came from Dean and the faded photograph he found in his dad's wallet. He's spent hours staring at it, wondering. Driving himself crazy.

What if? _What if?_

"You're a little warm."

Ellen's hand is cupping his cheek, fingers gently skimming over the steri-strips decorating the side of his face and it's a stark contrast to the way her eyes are boring into his skull, almost as if she expects to be able to see into his head, see the impulses firing across the synapses in his brain and make sense of them.

He stands still and lets her paw at him freely, unwilling to break her concentration as her hand moves upwards in search of his forehead. Under normal circumstances he would argue, try to duck away from the person intruding on his personal space, but Ellen's bark is as bad, if not worse, than her bite and she's already taken Dean down in one swift movement, something Sam didn't think was possible until two days ago.

The glass of the thermometer is cold under his tongue and he shivers slightly, reaching for his undershirt when the scrutiny of Ellen's gaze has him ducking his head and blushing like a schoolgirl. He doesn't think as he goes to lift the shirt up over his head, a simple task he's forgotten will be hampered by the fiery pull of tender flesh over the seemingly jagged ridges of his ribcage until he sees spots, the type of cold sweat that precedes passing out beading beneath the waistband of his jeans as his skin erupts into a sea of goosebumps.

"Easy, Sam. C'mon, deep breaths."

She laughs when he scowls at her around the thin glass tube.

"Honey, I've picked up spiders scarier than you. Give me your shirt."

She holds out her hand and he doesn't resist when he feels her grip his wrist, allows her to feed his arms through the sleeves of his t-shirt and then, carefully pull the material over his head, mindful of the tender flesh hidden beneath the thin cotton barrier.

The timer on Ellen's phone is startlingly loud against the quiet of the bar as it announces the end of his forced silence. He glances up through his bangs as he hands the thermometer over, watches as Ellen contemplates the silver line that will decide his future.

"98.9. Why don't you go see if you can convince your bother to stay in bed before I end up handcuffing him to the frame?"

She dangles a pair of handcuffs in front of him. They're pink. And fluffy.

The Wendigo was less horrifying.


	7. Chapter 7

So I've changed my mind about when this is set because I wanted to use the "Why do people always assume we're gay" line from Playthings. Once again, I struggled with this but I promised you Dean/Sam fluff and I'm not one to break my promises. Hopefully it's fluffy enough with being OOC.

And can I just say, I watched Ten Inch Hero the other day and, when they perfect human cloning, I'm so going to get me a Priestly.

Oh, and my W is playing up so there may be a few missing.

* * *

Sam's pretty sure that hell will freeze over before Ellen manages to carry out her threat. Not that she'll need those handcuffs of hers anyway – one patented 'Ellen' look and Sam can almost guarantee that Dean will fold like a cheap suit and grudgingly submit to Ellen's so-called _coddling_ with his usual grace and a few token protests. Failing that, there's always Nyquil. Or Ambien. Assuming, of course, that Dean doesn't realize Sam won't think twice about spiking his drink, especially if it means that Dean will be forced to stay in bed.

It's sad, really, that this is what they've been reduced to, forced to hurt each other in order to keep themselves safe.

He can feel Dean watching him from behind the door when he pauses for a second before moving to push it open, the squeaky hinges confirming what Dean already knows.

"Take a picture, it'll last longer."

He's sitting up in bed, propped up on what looks likes all of the pillows Ellen owns in a bid to stop him wheezing like an eighty-year-old fat man climbing a flight of stairs when the virus steals the air from his lungs and he pats the empty space beside him, breaking off to cough into his free hand. The coughs are wet and gloopy, sounds that reminds Sam of thousands of tiny, fragile air bubbles struggling to breach the surface of something thick and oily as they make a bid for freedom, and he finds himself watching his brother critically from the side of the bed as he fumbles on the overcrowded side table for a fresh tissue.

"Quit staring at me, Sam. 's creepy."

His voice is barely a whisper, the gruff tone he usually favors nutralized by the virus that's coiled itself around his vocal chords, like a clingy toddler around a parent's leg, and Sam can't help but grin at the way Dean grumbles halfheartedly about perverted little brothers as he carefully lowers himself to sit on the bed and toes off his shoes.

It's quiet save for the slight rasp when Dean exhales and it's almost as if they're kids again, the two of them sharing a bed and clinging to each other as they wait, never really sure just how long Dad will be gone for. Dean would put his arm around Sam's shoulders, pull his little brother close to his chest and Sam would lay his ear over Dean's heart and listen to the steady beat until he fell asleep in his brother's arms.

Except this time its Dean's head on Sam's shoulder, at least metaphorically, because Dean stops abruptly, gasping when moving towards Sam results in his sutures tugging on the tender flesh of his neck and a coughing fit that leaves him slumped against his mountain of pillows, mumbling something that sounds suspiciously like '_oh, fuck me' _when he finally catches his breath_. _

"You're overcompensating again, dude."

He rolls his eyes when Dean scowls at him, gingerly pushes himself away from the headboard as his brother's scowl morphs into a questioning look that Sam pointedly ignores until he's safely upright and navigating his way around the bed.

"Switch sides with me."

He's surprised when Dean complies without arguing, pushes himself up on his hands before sliding over to occupy the spot Sam has just vacated. He feels slightly awkward now that this has been orchestrated, as if acting spontaneously somehow cancels out the fact that sitting like this, the two of them willingly sharing a bed and personal space, has 'chick flick' written all over it. In big pink glittery letters. With little hearts dotting the _i's. _

It's scary how quickly they can go from this to beating the shit out of each other so Sam waits patiently for his brother to get settled before he climbs onto the bed and leans back against the some of the pillows Dean has decided are no longer needed. He can feel just how warm his brother is, heat generated by fever radiating through the thin cotton of Sam's undershirt where Dean is leaning heavily against him and he twists as much as his sore ribs will let him, bringing his free hand up to ghost over Dean's forehead.

"G'nna lose th't han', S'mmy."

He snorts and lets his hand drop to the mattress.

"Yeah, okay. Go to sleep before Ellen comes in here with her handcuffs."

* * *

And that's all she wrote. The End.

Please please _please_ drop me a wee review if you liked it :D


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